Grown Apart
by AnimeKariChan
Summary: When Arthur and Alfred haven't spoken to each other in years, what will happen when one's life suddenly depends on the other?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

It was the third time this week that the man had forgotten to draw the curtains before he had retired to his bed. The sun was warm on his skin as it cast itself over his slumbering face. He stirred slightly, pulling the thick white sheets over his head in a futile attempt to block out the unwelcome morning. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried vainly to force himself back into his previous dream. He wanted to be dancing with sprites and riding winged horses. He tried to picture himself swimming with water nymphs, capturing dragons, and befriending fearsome giants, but the persistent sun continued to deny him his escape from reality.

Reluctantly, he eventually sat up, raising one arm high above his head and rubbing his eyes with the other. He drew in a long, deep breath and held it for a moment before his shoulders slouched forward and his mop of blond hair fell into his emerald eyes. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he slipped his feet into his warm, bedside slippers. Before long he found himself standing upright. He looked down at himself and scowled at his appearance. His blue pajamas had wrinkled in the night and his pockets had turned inside out. His bed sheets were in shambles and his pillows had been rejected onto the cold floor. Slowly, he shuffled over to the window that had let in the obnoxious light. Taking hold of one of the white curtains, he squinted, shielding his eyes with his free hand as he peered through the sun at the outside world.

His garden was in full bloom; red and pink roes covered vines that twisted their way along neatly trimmed bushes and wooden gates like snakes constricting their next meal. Neatly kept lawns spread over the quaint little property, framed by patches of flowers and young, fruit baring trees. A blue and white stretch of jasmine followed the little stone path that lead from the front door of his house to the road at the end of his property. From the branches of the tall birch that rose from near the window he stood at, the man could hear the morning song of birds as they welcomed the new day by bathing in its early light. Everything seemed so old-fashioned: just the way he liked it.

The man had never cared much for how industrial the world around him had become. He missed the days of his youth when entertainment had been found by dashing threw a field with a kite or, on a good occasion, in the pages of an exiting story brought home from the library. He hated all the big, shiny buildings in the city. He did not like the noise of traffic or the concrete roads it moved on. He liked his quiet, serine, peaceful little bit of the countryside that he had kept the same all these years. He sighed and drew the curtains.

Turning around, the man made his way back to his bedside. He looked at the wrinkled blanket for a moment, longingly, as if wanting to slip back into its warm embrace and fall away into the world of dreams once more. Taking the fabric in his hands he stripped the blankets from the mattress along with any chance of fulfilling his dreamy desire. Carefully, he remade the bed with crisp white sheets. He neatly tucked the corners and pressed out all the puckers and wrinkles until he was satisfied. He stood for a moment, admiring his work, as he combed his fingers through his blond, messy hair. His tired eyes were still half closed with sleep as he suddenly noticed the one thing out of place in his room.

"Oh drat," the man muttered to himself, shuffling over to his bedside table to retrieve the picture that had been knocked off. He reached down and grasped the silver frame. Slowly, he lifted it from the ground, turning it around so that he could see the embedded photograph. The smile of the boy in the frame almost took the man by surprise. The wild blue eyes and outrageous smile of a troublemaker gleamed from their glossy paper world. The boys' blond hair was loose and wild, just like him. He was holding his first rifle, looking proud and strong as he posed happily with his new gift from the man. He was too old, in this picture, for toy soldiers and fairytales. 'Alfred, 13' was written carefully in the bottom corner of the picture.

"That wasn't too long before he left…" the man muttered to himself, placing the picture back onto the table. He turned away quickly, not wanting to think about the smiling boy too much, before making his way to the kitchen.

The man didn't know why he still kept that picture by his bedside. He began to think about his reasons as he placed his kettle on the hot stove and started to rummage through his cabinets for his coffee beans. He hated coffee, but this morning he really needed it. The boy wasn't even his real family. He had been abandoned and the man had simply taken him in. He had never felt like a 'father' to him; more of a guide, an older brother.

When he had first started raising the boy, everything had been fine. He had told him stories, taught him to read and write, and given the boy many life lessons to learn from. They seldom fought, and when they did, it had only ever been over trivial things such as preferred music or what to eat that day. They had shared a happy, comfortable life. The man had even given the boy a name, Alfred, after a respected father-like figure who had helped to raise the man in his own childhood. The young boy had been such a joy to the man. He had truly loved him and had often found himself spoiling the young lad with homemade gifts such as footballs and one of a kind toy soldiers. He had never regretted treating the child. In fact, he had been quite happy to do so. Every gift he had given had been received with such joy that it had been more of a reward than a hassle to make them all. Not one of the gifts seemed to influence the boy in a negative way, until…

The man's thoughts were interrupted when he felt his fingers find the cold glass of the jar of beans. Wrapping his grip around it, he lifted the container from its place on the shelf and quickly unscrewed its top. Carefully, he slid a silver spoon amongst the beans, lifting his preferred amount from the jar. Placing the lid back, he poured his spoonful into his coffee grinder and began to turn the crank. Once it had become a powder, he scooped the grounds into the filter he had placed into his coffee pot. Now he just had to wait for the water to boil.

Pulling back a chair, the man sat himself down at his kitchen table. He rested his elbow on the hard wood, and supported his chin with his hand as he stared wearily through the kitchen window, into his garden. The bright sheen of sunlight and flowers seemed to blur away as his thoughts turned again to the boy from the picture.

When he had decided to buy Alfred his first rifle, the man hadn't thought it would cause any real problems. The young boy had been so thrilled with the gift, jumping up and down at the first sight of it. He had even begged the man to take his picture with the gun, so that he could remember the happy occasion. It had been fun to teach the boy how to use his new weapon. He had stood behind him, holding his shoulders, and encouraged the boy to keep trying after every missed shot. He would never forget the beaming smile on the child's face when he hit a tin can for the first time, and he would never forget how he was so proud of the boy that he had felt the same smile sneak across his own lips. But he would also never forget, after the boy had become a man, staring down the barrel of the very gun that had brought the both of them such excitement.

The kettle screamed from the hob, causing the man to nearly fall out of his chair with surprise. He jumped up and rushed to the stove, lifting the hot container from the element. A loud knock at the door suddenly startled the man. For a moment, he lost his grip on the pot and it fell from his grasp. Scolding water splashed onto his hand. He howled in pain as he stumbled backwards in shock, gripping at his burning skin. The pain shot through his entire arm and into his body as he felt his flesh sear in the overwhelming heat. He clenched his teeth together, as tightly as he could, to try to stop his own moaning and hurried over to the sink. The cold water felt like a godsend as it flowed over his throbbing hand. He steadied his breathing and pulled up his sleeve to allow the relief of the liquid to flow over his skin without worry of wetting his shirt. The knock, to the man's dismay, came again from the door in a persistent urgency.

"Maybe if I don't answer they'll just go away," he whispered to himself, not wanting to remove his hand from the comfort of the cool water. He stood quietly, waiting for the pounding of the door to stop. With each repetition of strikes, the knocking seemed to become softer and softer, but still it continued. The man finally grunted in annoyance and snatched up a dishrag from the counter beside him. He ran the cloth under the cold sink until it was soaking wet, then wrapped it around his injured hand, fashioning it with a loose, makeshift knot.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" the man barked at the incessant knocker as he hurried into the hallway, towards the front door. "Who on earth would be so insistent to see me this early in the morning?" he hissed under his breath as he reached for the latch on the door.

"Can I help y-"

The words caught in his throat as he saw the man on his doorstep. Two wild blue eyes stared at him from behind a pair of unfamiliar glasses. A mess of uncombed blond hair flowed gently in the soft warm wind as the tall figure stood motionless in the doorway.

It was Alfred. The sight of him nearly made the man stumble backwards. Alfred never visited him. They hadn't even spoken to each other casually in what seemed like years. But there he was, standing on the man's doorstep. His mere presence, though, wasn't the only thing that shocked the man. The boy's cloths were ripped, his posture broken, but mostly, Alfred was covered in blood.

"Hey Arthur…" the words shook from the tall boy's lips as he seemed to gasp for air. "…You look like your doing well." Alfred shuddered and fell forward, hitting the ground at the man's feet. Arthur was completely in shock. Why was Alfred here? Why were his cloths torn apart? Why was there so much blood on him? What was going on?


	2. Chapter 2

Though the initial shock of the situation was completely incapacitating, Arthur was able to shake himself into sanity after only a moment's pause. Alfred was on his doorstep, at his feet, unmoving, bleeding. This was the first time he had seen him in years, but why now? Why like this? What on earth could have caused the boy to be in such a retched state? The overwhelming confusion consuming the man's thoughts was quickly replaced with panic as he dropped to the ground, propping the other man's torso up and shaking him by the shoulders in an attempt to break his unconscious state. The boy gave no response to the gesture, his head only rocking loosely on his neck as his shoulders were pushed back and fourth. Arthur stopped his motion instantly as he noticed the boy's face beginning to wash pale from the loss of blood. He knew he had little time as he positioned Alfred's arm over his shoulder, lifting him from the ground. The boy was heavy, and awkward to support, but the man managed to stagger him into the bedroom where he laid him down onto his own bed. He whipped his head around, looking for anything that could help to stop the boy's bleeding. Grabbing spare blankets from the dresser by the bed, he climbed over the boy's waist, straddling him, and applied a strong, steady pressure to the gash on the man's chest.

There was nothing else he could do. He lived too far from the city to call for help, and he didn't have much medical training. He had never owned an automobile, and he certainly couldn't carry the injured man into town. He could only sit there, trying to stop the bleeding, until another option presented itself. He felt useless.

The minutes seemed more like hours as Arthur sat still, holding the sheets to the man's chest, his arms being pushed away and drawn back by Alfred's slow, shallow breathing. The man felt helpless, only able to do this much, but at least now he had time to think clearly. Carefully, he scanned his surroundings, trying to think of what his next move would have to be. The room was practically bare, the only things in sight being the closed window and nearby nightstand. The framed picture of the boy with the rifle caught the man's attention once again. He stared at the young, lively lad in the photograph and remembered how full of life he had been, how strong. He lowered his gaze to the man underneath him. His eyes were closed and his expression weak and pained. Blood was smeared through his hair, over his face, and soaked his clothes in a deep red. His glasses were bent and the left lens was broken, but somehow they had managed to stay resting on his nose. Scrapes and cuts covered the boy's face, and a faint bruise seemed to be forming on his cheek.

"What happened to you?" Arthur whispered to the unresponsive body beneath him, not expecting a reply. By now, he was used to not being acknowledged by the boy. He was used to the boy pulling away in his young ignorance. He had become accustomed to being told that he was unwanted, unneeded. And he could still picture that memory of the boy insisting on his own independence as vividly as if the same rain from that very night were still running through his blond hair. The rifle he had given the boy demanding the same freedom as the fire blazing in those wild blue eyes. But that was all in the past now, right?

It seemed like so long ago that he had seen Alfred- like years had passed since they had talked. But now, here he was, sitting right on top of him, trying to stop his bleeding by pressing bunched up cloth against his chest. The whole thing just seemed so impossible. The man wondered, for a moment, if it were possible this was all merely a dream. He wondered if he was still underneath his warm covers, simply experiencing a realistic nightmare. Looking down, he watched the bed sheets soaking up the crimson blood and reassured himself that this was, in fact, happening.

To Arthur's relief the bleeding eventually seemed to stop. Leaning forward, he held his forehead over the boy's mouth, not wanting to release the pressure he held just yet, and felt a shallow, steady repetition of warm breaths against his skin. Sitting back up, he slowly relaxed his pressing on the wound until he had completely removed his hands. No more blood came from the cut. Arthur placed two fingers on the side of Alfred's neck and counted the beats. His hart rate seemed to be normal, if not a bit fast, but nothing of much concern. Slowly lifting the bundle of cloth, Arthur carefully inspected the wound that was visible through the boy's torn shirt. The cut was a nearly perfect gash that extended from the left side of his upper chest to the right of his abdominals. It was straight, but filled with dirt and filth. Arthur knew he would have to clean it before he could apply a dressing. He thought for a moment, trying to sort through his best options. He could clean it with a wet cloth, but there was a lot of blood, and what if there were more wounds on his body? No, he had to be more thorough. He had to make sure that the man's body was completely free of anything that could cause him infection or sickness. Once he had decided what to do, he had to devise his means of movement carefully.

Little by little, Arthur lifted himself from Alfred's body. He moved consciously, lifting his leg over the boy and carefully placing it onto the ground beside the bed. Standing, he carefully slid his arms under Alfred's shoulders and knees, wincing for a moment at the sudden pain that shot through his hand. He had completely forgotten about his burn. It throbbed as it felt the pressure between the unconscious man and the bed sheets, but there was no time to give into pain now. He braced himself and took a deep breath. He just had to get him to the bathroom. It wasn't very far. Summoning as much strength as he could muster, he lifted the man from the bed and held him in his arms.

For a moment, it was as if a feeling of nostalgia washed over Arthur. It was strange to hold the boy again, but it brought back such welcome memories of times before they had grown apart. The man could almost see the boy from the picture, asleep in his arms, but the unquestionable weight of the unconscious man proved the reality of the situation. Gradually, the man took his first steps towards the doorway of the room. The hallway seemed to go on for miles as the man strained his body to complete its task. Alfred was very strong and well built, thus, he was very heavy. Arthur, on the other hand, was somewhat meek and almost feeble. It was a struggle, but he managed to carry the boy down the hallway and into the bathroom where he slipped him into the dry tub.

Without much thought, he slowly began to undress Alfred. First, he lifted the man's torso so that he could support him as if he were sitting upright. Sliding the sleeves from his arms, Arthur carefully removed the man's leather jacket before undoing the buttons of, and discarding, the ripped shirt underneath. With his chest revealed, Arthur could now see the extent of the gash on the boy's chest. It was long, deep, and would almost certainly leave a scar. It was a real miracle that the bleeding had stopped when it did, otherwise things could have gotten much worse then they already were. It also became apparent to Arthur, that Alfred's right arm had been dislocated at both the shoulder and the elbow.

To Arthur's surprise and confusion, the fly of the boy's pants was already down and it seemed as if they had been put on very sloppily. Ignoring this, the man continued to lay Alfred down in the tub and supported his lower back with his arm so that his hips were in the air. Pulling firmly, Arthur was able to remove Alfred's pants from his waist in a quick motion before lifting his ankles slightly in order to eliminate his shoes and finish taking off his pants. The man's suspicions were proven correct as he removed the boy's boxers. Alfred was cut and scratched from head to toe, and multiple bruises seemed to be forming on his skin. Arthur already couldn't believe what he was seeing, but as he turned the showerhead onto a gentle spray and watched the water slowly revealed what was underneath the dirt and filth he felt his heart nearly tear apart.

Alfred's body was beaten and bruised all over. It seemed like at least two of his ribs were broken, and his arms were covered in deep lacerations as if they had been bound by some form of wire. There were various cuts along his torso and thighs as if someone had gone at him with a knife for fun, but upon turning the man over to clean his back, it became very apparent to Arthur what had really happened.

The man's back and shoulders were cover in straight, crisscrossing cuts and sores as if he had been whipped hard and repeatedly. The skin on the nape of his neck was torn and looked as though it had been bitten and ripped. The man's behind had been scratched, bruised and seemed to have long thin burns that ran down it, onto the back of his thighs and up to his waist. His ankle must have been twisted, for it was swollen and already blue with bruising. But the thing that made Arthur's heart sink the deepest, that made him almost want to be sick, was one of the last things that he noticed about his brother's beaten body.

As Arthur was washing away the dirt and blood from Alfred's thighs, he noticed the blood leaking from his anus. At that moment, the man remembered how the boy had been standing before he had passed out; his legs had been somewhat apart, and his posture had seemed so broken. The look in his eyes had not only been one of pain, but of embarrassment and shame. Looking down at the man's boxer's he noticed the white residue that he had overlooked before, and he knew exactly what had happened. Alfred, his own brother, had been beaten and raped.


	3. Chapter 3

The realization of what had happened struck Arthur like a blow to the stomach. He felt sick, unable to breathe, as if he would topple over at any moment. His hands shook franticly as they released the boy's limp body, allowing it to slip back into the wet tub so that it lay on its side. The man's heart pounded, his breath quickened, and it was all he could do to lean over the toilet as his overwhelmed mind and body forced him to vomit.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Arthur stood up and looked down at the boy. His naked body, now clear of dirt and mud, was ruined by the beating it had endured. The water washing over him turned red as it met his wounds and trickled down the drain. The man leaned down and turned the water off. He pulled several towels from the small white rack by the shower and slowly proceeded to carefully pat the water from Alfred's body. There was no time to be wasted on lamenting; Arthur had to finish what he had started. When the boy was mostly dry, Arthur wrapped him in a large white towel that he knew would soon be ruined by the blood. Placing another folded towel under the boys head to act as a pillow, he stood up and carefully examined the scene for any potential hazards. Seeing nothing to be an immediate possible danger, Arthur convinced himself that it was safe to leave Alfred alone for a short time at this point. Slowly, he backed towards the open door of the hallway. His eyes were the last thing to slip through the door frame as he made his way through it quietly, carefully watching his brother until the last possible second.

Even with the morning light piercing the blinds of the windows, the hall seemed dark, bleak, and foreboding. Arthur listened to the echoing of his own steps as they carried him back in the direction of his room. Thoughts pounded through his head like bullets as his steps quickened and grew in force. Who had done this? Why had they done it? Why had they done it to him? His heart rate raged as he shoved his bedroom door from his path. The stained sheets of the bed in the simple room seemed to cry and plead with Arthur to have saved Alfred from this terrible fate.

The man was filled with an overwhelming sense of guilt and anger that, in that moment, overtook him as if he had been possessed by some furious wailing banshee. His temper snapped. He pounced at the bed, ripping the sheets from it and throwing them to the floor in his rage. Tears began to well up in the man's eyes and he flung the soiled pillows from the bare mattress as he let out a cry of the anguish that swelled inside of him. He kneeled there, still on his bed, breathing heavily for a few seconds as he tried to blink away the hot moisture from his eyes. He needed to stay calm or he wouldn't be able to help Alfred at all.

Arthur took a deep breath and slipped off the bed. His mattress was ruined due to the blood that had soaked through the sheets, but there was no time to deal with that now. Retrieving the last few sheets from the dresser, Arthur stretched the bedcover and blankets over the bed before replacing the pillow casings and returning them to their usual places. He gathered all the dirty sheets and cases and stuffed them into the laundry hamper where they bulged out, unable to fit completely. Digging through his dresser, Arthur pulled out some of his more comfortable clothes, including a pair of simple black slacks, a dark forest green T-shirt, and two pairs of underwear. Reaching a little deeper, he also managed to produce an old pair of wool pyjamas that he never seemed to use anymore (not that there was anything wrong with them). He just preferred his other pair… The pair he was wearing; the pair that was now stained with his brother's blood. He shook his head, trying not to let himself become emotional again as he unbuttoned and removed the dirty shirt from his chest, throwing it at the already full laundry hamper. Running his hand along his bare left shoulder, he winced slightly as his fingers met the small scar that still remained from the bullet he had once taken there. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind for a moment, trying not to let the images from that time flood his thoughts and conflict him from helping Alfred. Turning back to the door, he took the clean clothes in his arms and returned to the washroom where his brother was still laying in the tub, right where he had been left.

Arthur took his time to carefully dress Alfred without moving him around too much in the tub. When he was finished, he carefully lifted the boy from the bath and placed him on the small floor mat so that he leaned against the wall. The blue and white plaid clothes almost seemed to suit the small boy, but he had never been one to bear the union jack that was carefully stitched on his uniform shirt. He had always rebelled against that flag it had seemed, choosing to instead uphold the stars and stripes that represented the land that he had made his home. When Arthur was satisfied that Alfred would remain upright and was breathing steadily, he himself began to undress. He hadn't bothered to replace his shirt, so he simply removed his pants and briefs. When he had discarded his clothes along with the towels from the bath and Alfred's ruined garments, he stepped into the shower.

The welcome comfort of the hot water drenched the man as he stood under its misty stream, allowing it to wash the blood and filth from his body. He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing at the sudden pain of water on his newly burnt hand. This was the second time he had forgotten about his injury. How could he be so unconscious of his own physical ailments? He held his hand out from the water in a vain attempt to lessen the pain for the duration of his shower, but succumbed to the knowledge that he would just have to grit his teeth and bare with it until he was able to tend to his hand with more care. Reaching for the soap he worked a thick lathered all over his body, allowing the water to carry it away with the remainder of the filth until his skin was clear, back to its usual milky pale perfection. He felt his body relax as he gradually allowed his mind to be engulfed by the steam that rose around him. His lips smiled faintly as his thoughts wandered, scampering freely through his subconscious to images of carefree days and innocent fantasies. He visited countless memories from his childhood: the stories his mother had read to him, playing catch with his father, how sure he had been that the shadows in his closet were just waiting for him to fall asleep... He remembered growing up and the many silly hardships it had presented him with: the first time he had broken out, the burning in his cheeks whenever his voice's pitch had failed him, and that unexplainable attraction he had seemed to have for Antonio Carriedo, a Spanish exchange student in his tenth grade high school class... But then, that last one had just been a phase, he was sure about that. It was the only explanation, though he still kept it to himself just to be sure.

Arthur's mind continued to wander, exploring memory after memory, fantasy after fantasy, slowly forgetting about time and reality until nether one existed to him. There was nothing but the water slipping over his body. Nothing but the thoughts that flashed through his mind like a choppy film spliced together with a bundle of old home movies. Nothing existed but the dog he had had as a boy. Nothing but the first time he had had a drink with his mates. Nothing but his first kiss with Rachael Lietz, the pretty little Seychelles girl from the summer of his fourteenth year. Nothing but cotton candy and ferris wheels. Nothing but taking in the small boy who had needed him. Nothing but the searing pain of the bullet from the young boy's musket as it buried its self into his shoulder… The water falling over Arthur was no longer warm and welcoming, it was cold and unforgiving- rain from the past. It ripped the man from his blissful reflections and back into the hell of his inescapable regrets. He stood there, staring through his shower head into the downpour drenching the muddy field. The roof above his head had melted away into angry clouds that cast their fury down in water and lightning that split the dark seen with flashes of misplaced light. Arthur froze, his nakedness covered by bloodstained clothes, the old scare on his shoulder now bleeding fresh blood as the young boy standing before him recovered from the recoil of his weapon.

Wild blue eyes flashed up at Arthur from behind the mop of messy blond hair. They looked angry, but also sad, unable to completely understand what their owner was doing. Alfred snapped the gun up so that it was again pointed at his brother.

"I told you I would do it," his voice shook as it rose, "but you didn't listen to me. You never listen to me!"

Arthur was jerked away from his nostalgia by the sudden collision of his hind quarters to the bottom of his bath tub. His feet had slipped from under him, and in his momentary confusion between reality and memory he had managed to fall quite abruptly onto his naked butt. The unpleasant sensation of sudden contact sent a sharp pain stabbing through the man's body, resulting in a frustrated moan as he rubbed his buttocks. He shook his head and spread his fingers across his face, looking up into the shower of water that was again meeting his skin with comforting warmth. His return to reality was confirmed as his hand shot to his shoulder where it found no open wound, only an old closed scar. He gripped the sides of his tub, moving carefully in an attempt to keep his footing, and slowly raised himself so that he was again standing under his showerhead. Rubbing away what soap was left in his hair and on his body he turned the water off and stepped from the tub onto the cold, dry floor. He grabbed the towel he had set aside, rubbing it over himself until it had soaked up most of the water on his body. Arthur then proceeded to slip into his briefs and slacks before giving his hair a final rub with his towel so that his wet, blond hair stood up in every direction like an unkept bush. He thought about brushing it down, but sighed and decided against it in the knowing that no matter how hard he tried, it would end up looking no different when it was dry. There was simply no hope for such uncooperative hair. Pulling his T-shirt over his head and pushing his arms through the sleeves, he examined his newly dressed reflection in the mirror. He wasn't young anymore. His fetchers rudely reminded him of that, but for being in his late forties his body did look noticeably good. True, he wasn't exactly model material, but he did take care of himself and it showed, so he was satisfied with himself.

Arthur turned his back to the mirror and looked down at Alfred who was still leaning against the wall, his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. He looked normal now, as normal as one could look while leaning against a bathroom wall. He was clean, cleared of the excess blood and dirt that had caked his body before. It was almost comforting to see him like this, so vulnerable and naïve; so unknowingly dependent on the older man who had taken him in… Just like so many years ago…

Arthur crouched down so that he was squatting just in front of his brother, staring into his face. He looked so content, so innocent. How could anyone who looked so peaceful have gone through such a thing? How could someone have done this to him? Arthur trembled at the thought as he reached his hand up, gently pushing Alfred's drying bangs from his face. His cheek was so warm, almost hot, as the man's fingers brushed against it. His eyes were seemed barely closed, as if they could open at any moment, but Arthur knew that was probably not going to happen.

Slipping one hand under the boy's legs and the other beneath his shoulders, Arthur took a deep breath and once again lifted the heavy boy into his arms. It took him a moment to centre himself, but after a few seconds of catching his balance and cursing himself for lifting with his back rather than his legs, he began to take trudging steps towards the door. It took every bit of will power he could muster just to keep himself from dropping the boy or collapsing. How in the world could a person be this solid? He obviously had a good muscle mass, but bloody hell he must have weighed a ton! Arthur huffed and puffed as he staggered down the hall and into his room where he let out a welcome sigh of relief as he transferred Alfred's weight to his bed. He carefully tugged the newly lain covers over his brother's body and pressed them around so that he was warm and snug. Brushing the boy's bangs from his face once more, Arthur stepped back from the bed and looked it over carefully. The sheets were rather hastily tucked in, but at least they were clean and warm. The sunlight from the window was no longer passing over where the pillows were, it seemed more time had passed than he had thought. It must have been almost noon by now considering the lighting in the room, and Arthur's hand was still hurting. The man couldn't see or think of any immediate dangers to leaving Alfred alone in the room for a short while, so he quietly slipped out and headed towards the kitchen.

He scowled at the sight of the kettle on the ground, aggravated by his having to pick it up now as opposed to when it had first fallen. Placing it into the sink, he turned on the cold water and finally held his burn under the icy trickle. He flinched at first as the sudden shock of the liquid pierced his hand like a jolt of electricity, but quickly found the pain melting away into pleasant relief. He sighed, taking in the wonderful cooling sensation that masked his burn. He was enjoying the pain-free bliss that his tap was able to provide for him in these moments of stress and confusion. Taking a cloth from the drawer beside him, he reluctantly removed his hand from the water, soaking the cloth and wrapping it around his burn. It wasn't quite as relieving as the running water, but it did keep the pain to a minimum. Retrieving a tea towel from atop his counter, he proceeded to quickly wipe the water that had been spilled from the kettle to the floor. When the floor was dry, Arthur returned to the sink where he rinsed and refilled the kettle, placing it back on the hob.

His need for coffee had been abolished by the adrenalin that the ordeal he had just dealt with had provided him, however he was quite in the mood for a spot of tea. It didn't take him long to notice that the cloth wrapping his hand was slowly becoming warmer and thus less helpful to him, so he was relieved when he remembered that he had left some water to freeze in the ice box the night before. He hurried over to the fridge, opened the freezer and retrieved the ice tray from inside. He closed the freezer and unwrapped the wet cloth from his hand. Twisting the ice tray, Arthur managed to cause several cubes to fall onto his counter from where he picked them up and wrapped them in the damp towel. He then placed it back onto his hand while he held it with the other. Having both hands pressed together like this posed as quite a challenge in doing anything that required contact. He managed to put the ice tray back in the freezer by lifting it with his burnt hand while still holding the ice with his other. It did require him to use his foot to open the freezer door, but there was no one to witness him doing such a silly thing so he didn't really care. Arthur fiddled with his cupboards, cups, and tea leaves while still managing to keep the ice compressed to his hand until he was called to the stove by the screaming kettle. He tipped the water into his cup, watching it swirl the tea leaves around and stain the water a pleasant shade of dark brown. Cream and sugar mingled perfectly with the hot tea as he removed the leaves and combined his finished drink with a small silver spoon. He took an experimental sip and discovered, to his dismay, that his tea was still too hot for his sensitive mouth. Realizing that he shouldn't be far from Alfred for too long, Arthur decided he would wait for his tea to cool and enjoy it while sitting on the small chair in his room. He took the saucer in his injured hand, holding the ice to his burn with the other, and slowly walked back to his room while carefully blowing the steam from his tea as he went. He stepped into the room, watching his drink carefully to insure that it did not spill, and quickly glided over to the wooden chair that stood near the side of his bed. A quiet tap filled the soundless room as he placed his saucer on the bedside table, lifting his drink from it. Sinking into the chair, Arthur made himself comfortable while he lifted the cup to his lips, taking a delicate sip as he peered over the rim at Alfred. The shock of what he realized in that moment nearly made him jump from his own skin.

Open, staring right back at him, were Alfred's wild sapphire eyes.


End file.
